


Sofa Samba

by oreganotea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Alternative Meeting, Friendship, Gen, Humor, M/M, Pre-Slash, Science Fiction, Urban Fantasy, mild AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-19
Updated: 2012-05-19
Packaged: 2017-11-05 15:27:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oreganotea/pseuds/oreganotea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock opens his eyes, there is a flustered-looking man levitating near his living room ceiling, a couple of feet away from an open window.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sofa Samba

**Author's Note:**

> Monday Begins On Saturday fusion. You don't need to have read the book for the story to make sense, but you should read it anyway because it's awesome.

When Sherlock opens his eyes, there is a flustered-looking man levitating near his living room ceiling, a couple of feet away from an open window.

Sherlock knows he isn’t dreaming because he can always tell when he is.

It’s possible that he’s been kidnapped and drugged, but as far as he can tell he hasn’t lost any time. So not likely.

Sudden onset psychosis is always an option, of course.

But there is a simpler and far less unpleasant explanation.

“Umm,” says the man ( _below average height, stocky build, sandy blond hair, military haircut, plain but pleasant features, friendly demeanour, well-kept but unflattering clothes,_  Sherlock catalogues) as soon as he realises that Sherlock is awake. “I can explain.”

And Sherlock can’t wait to hear it, but first things first.

“Can I borrow your phone?”

“Sorry?”

“Can I borrow your phone,” Sherlock enunciates more carefully. “I just had a breakthrough on a case, and I need to send a message to the idiot in charge of the investigation.”

“Oh,” says the man. “Yes. Sure. Of course.”

He tilts his body like a skydiver and drifts closer to Sherlock, then pulls the phone out of his breast pocket and drops it on Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock types out his message and hands the phone back.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asks as the man screws up his face in concentration and slowly drifts down, left arm outstretched.

The man startles.

“What?” he says, hesitating a moment with the phone still held between them. “Umm. Afghanistan. How did you-”

“What do you want with my sofa?” Sherlock interrupts.

By now the man looks completely flabbergasted.

“Why are you not surprised?” he asks after several long seconds of complicated facial reconfigurations.

+

_When Sherlock was six years old, he found a crumpled twenty-pound note in the woods bordering the Holmes’ summer cottage._

_Coming from a well-off family, and not being much interested in money besides, he wasn’t nearly as happy about the find as most other children (possibly even adults) would have been._

_Not at the time, that is._

_It was when they got back to the city and Sherlock used the note to buy himself a bag of chips and a soda while out exploring that it became (at least for the day) the most fascinating thing in the world._

_As he shoved his change into the same pocket he’d kept the original note in, Sherlock came to an abrupt halt on the pavement outside the shop._

_There was another note in his pocket. A pocket that should have been empty._

_Sherlock frowned, let go of the money still clutched in his fist, and drew the new note out._

_Twenty pounds, and it looked an awful lot like the twenty pounds he’d just handed over to the shop clerk. It was just as wrinkled, and Sherlock was pretty sure that was the same grass stain._

_It could have been be a coincidence, of course. It was possible that one note had already been in his pocket when he put the second one in earlier that morning, and he’d just missed it. Not likely, but possible._

_Obviously this called for further experimentation, so Sherlock headed for the bookshop across the street and grabbed a random hardcover (something about bees) off a shelf._

_He checked his pocket as soon as the door closed behind him._

_The twenty-pound note was there. Same creases, same grass stain. Sherlock was_ ecstatic.

_Over the next hour, he purchased enough junk food to feed ten homeless people for a week, acquired two bagfuls of books and clothes and other trinkets he had absolutely no use for besides the food, became acquainted with over twenty shop clerks, and ended up with ten times more money than he’d started out with._

_He also came to following conclusions:_

  1. _The note returns if you use it to pay for something,_
  2. _If you drop or hide it somewhere, it remains where it is,_
  3. _The note returns only when no-one can either see or feel it (e.g. When it is hidden by other notes or when it’s closed inside a till),_
  4. _Unless something impedes it, the note returns to the same place it was kept before,_
  5. _If you keep a hand in the pocket you took the note out of, it will return to a different pocket, and_
  6. _If you keep both hands in your pockets and accept your change with an elbow, it will appear somewhere else on your body (e.g. Inside a shoe)._



_Needless to say, the note came in extremely handy years later when Sherlock obtained a drug habit and (consequently) lost his allowance._

+

“Should I be?” Sherlock deflects.

For all he knows, if he admits that he’s long been aware that there’s more to the world than most people (himself included) can even begin to comprehend because of a magical note he found as a child, the man will try to take that away too.

“I ask again,” he says instead. “What do you want with my sofa?”

“No, seriously,” says the man. “How can you possibly know that I’m after the sofa?”

“The four most likely reasons for breaking into someone’s home are theft, intent to harm or kidnap a resident, a prank, or vandalism. If you were after me, you would have made your move long before now. You are neither young nor drunk enough for this to be a prank. If it were vandalism, you would have left as soon as you saw that the flat isn’t empty. The same applies to theft. Unless, that is, what you are after is important enough that you feel you cannot leave it for later. When I opened my eyes, you were already facing me, and it’s clear that movement of any sort is not easy in your current state, so what you want is either something I’m wearing or what I’m lying on. The last bit was a lucky guess, but my clothes are relatively old and the sofa is new, so it’s probably the sofa,” says Sherlock.

There is a brief stunned silence.

“That... was… amazing,” says the man.

Sherlock blinks.

“You think so?”

“Yes. Absolutely. That was bloody brilliant.”

“That’s not what people usually say.”

“What do people usually say?”

“Piss off,” says Sherlock.

The man lets out a startled laugh, and Sherlock grins back.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Sherlock points out. “What’s so special about the sofa?”

“That it’s _not_ a sofa,” says the man, and now there’s a teasing note in his voice.

“It looks like a sofa, it feels like a sofa, I’m pretty sure it is a sofa,” says Sherlock.

“It’s a sofa-shaped dimensional bridge,” says the man. “A teleportation device. Not unlike your twenty-pound note, though a fair bit more sophisticated.”

Now it’s Sherlock’s turn to jerk in surprise.

“How do you know about the note?” he demands.

“I gave it to you,” says the man.

“What?” says Sherlock.

+

_When John was ten years old, his Mum took him along to a Witch conference._

_Technically, the bit of forest it was held at had been private property for over two hundred years, but it was a traditional spot, and Witches did love tradition. Besides, making yourself invisible to normal people was the easiest thing in the world for a Witch._

_At the very least, it was a quick way to weed out the impostors who used pre-made spells and potions to sneak in. The least skilled impostors, anyway. Targeted detection spells were used to weed out most of the rest._

_It was generally agreed that if you were cunning enough to avoid even those, then you deserved to be called Witch even if you weren’t._

_John spent most of his time there sneaking around the landowners’ cottage. It was either that or submitting himself to the witches’ not-so-tender mercies, and he got enough cheek pinching at home from his Mum thank you very much._

_He could have gone inside. His Mum’s invisibility spell was strong enough that there would be no chance whatsoever of him being seen. But that would have been impolite, so he kept to the gardens. Which probably wasn’t very polite either, not when they didn’t know he was there, but John was_ bored.

_To his dismay, the parents and the older boy were too reserved and proper and flawless to be even a little fun to watch, even if they seemed like perfectly decent people. And they talked about the dullest of things – politics and classical art and the economy._

_But the younger boy, Sherlock, was a different story entirely. He was the only one who could get them to show any real emotion (mostly horror and exasperation), and he didn’t hide his own thoughts and feelings at all, and he was brilliant and fearless and always in trouble and John really really_ really _wanted to talk to him._

_He couldn’t._

_His Mum’s spell wouldn’t allow anyone to either see or hear him even if he did want them to._

_Still, he wanted to do_ something _. So when he saw Sherlock heading in his direction in the woods the day John was due to leave, he dropped the boomerang note his Mum had given him for his last birthday in Sherlock's path._

_A goodbye present, even if they never really met._

+

“Funny how these things work out. I didn’t expect to ever see you again. I can’t believe I even recognized you, though I think that has more to do with your… youness,” says the man (Sherlock’s eyebrows twitch), “than your appearance. Anyway, I was having lunch at Speedy’s when I saw the movers bringing the bridge in, and I thought it looked familiar. It’s something of a priceless relic, you know. Then earlier today I was talking to my Mum, and she mentioned that the last person who was responsible for it really did lose it.”

“How do you lose a sofa?” asks Sherlock. “And is the hovering really necessary?” he adds, sitting up and moving his legs to make room. “Sit,” he orders.

The man doesn’t argue, but his descent takes what feels like a small eternity.

“Like I said,” the man says as soon as he’s settled comfortably in front of Sherlock. “Not a sofa. A moody teleportation device. I know they usually keep it in a special room, but I guess the bloke who was studying it took it to a lab and then turned his back on it or something.”

“And, what? It just jumped away?”

“Well, yeah,” the man says, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck, as if somehow this is his fault. “No-one knows if it’s a programming malfunction or if the bridge is actually semi-sentient, but it does that.”

“Wait,” says Sherlock, his eyes widening. “Does that mean it could-”

“No, do-” the man shouts franticly, reaching a hand towards Sherlock.

The shift is instantaneous. One moment they are sitting in Sherlock’s living room, the next they appear to be deep inside a tropical rainforest.

“-n’t,” the man finishes, and grabs Sherlock’s arm before he can jump up.

“If you get up, there’s a pretty good chance the sofa will move again. It has a tendency to do the exact opposite of what people want it to do when left to its own devices,” he warns.

Sherlock relaxes back into the cushions and looks around. It’s a beautiful place, to be sure, but he’s already starting to sweat, and neither of them is going to last long without any food or water.

“Can you make it go back?” he asks.

“No way,” says the man. “I wanted to become a Witch Doctor like my Mum. Spent a whole year at the Essex Institute of Quantum Manipulation and Miracle Working after I got my Bachelor’s. But I didn’t take to the training at all.”

“Because it’s an ability you have to be born with?”

“Sort of. It’s not a magical gift or anything, like you see in fantasy books, but you do need a special kind of mind for it. Twisty and abstract and better at seeing possibilities than reality. I guess I just don’t have the imagination. The only thing I managed to learn is levitation, and you saw how good I am at that,” he smiles self-deprecatingly. “Besides, I don’t even have a wand.”

“A wand,” Sherlock repeats flatly.

“The technical term is quantum manipulation rod, but it’s a bit of a mouthful. Can’t do anything complicated without it.”

“You can’t. The sofa can.”

“Right.”

“Great.”

There is a slightly awkward silence. By now Sherlock’s clothes are soaked through with sweat, and the other man doesn’t seem to be faring much better.

“You gave me the best gift I have ever received,” Sherlock says gravely.

The man eyeballs him suspiciously. “Is this some sort of a dying speech? I don’t think we’re in that much trouble _yet_.”

“You broke into my flat.”

“Sorry.”

“You abducted me and stranded me in the middle of nowhere.”

“Technically that was you, not me.”

“And I still don’t know your name.”

The man laughs. He has a nice laugh. Light and playful and very infectious.

Hot and sticky and uncomfortable as Sherlock is, it absurdly makes him feel a little better.

“John,” the man says, holding out his hand. “John Watson.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock replies, accepting the handshake.

It’s a ridiculous thing to do while sitting on a sofa in a rainforest, and they burst out laughing at the same time.

They stop because suddenly everything is water.

They come up coughing and sputtering to discover that the rainforest has been replaced with an empty swimming pool. And it looks very much like… yes. This is definitely it.

“Bloody hell, what now?” asks John, following Sherlock to the edge of the pool.

“I know this place,” says Sherlock. “We’re back in London.”

John’s eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously?”

Sherlock looks down at the water, and the sofa resting under it. “This will be fun,” he mutters.

“What?” says John, following Sherlock’s line of sight. “No, we should leave it. I’ll call the Institute. They can figure out how to get it out and contained themselves.”

“I never agreed to gave it back,” says Sherlock.

“It almost got us killed, and you want to keep it?” John asks incredulously.

“We’ll be prepared next time,” says Sherlock.

“We?”

“We.”

John looks pleased by that, but he still shakes his head.

“Sherlock,” he says, “there’s a reason I tried to get it myself. The guys at the Institute don’t know what moderation means, and don’t give a toss about other people’s rights. The only thing they care about is their research, and getting rid of anything that might stand in the way of that research. Which includes normal people finding out. If they trace the bridge to you, they will erase your memory just as a precaution. And believe me, if you keep it? It would be a question of when, not if.”

Sherlock scowls, but relents. He isn’t exactly equipped to defend himself against wizards, or whatever it is that they prefer to call themselves.

Not yet.

So he hauls himself out of the water and drips towards the door, John right behind him.

Outside, they hesitate.

“So,” ventures John. “This has been… fun.”

“You don’t sound sure,” says Sherlock.

John huffs. “Fine, it _has_ been fun. I’m just not sure I want to admit it, because a) that would imply that I’m insane, and b) then I’d have to acknowledge that nothing nearly as interesting is likely to ever happen to me again.”

“You didn’t leave the army by choice,” says Sherlock, voicing what he’d realised during the short walk from the pool. “You were invalided because of a shoulder wound. There is also a slight tremor in your left hand, but it’s psychosomatic. It only appeared when the stress started to wear off. _While_ you were stressed, your hands were perfectly steady. You’re bored.”

John sighs. “You have no idea.”

Sherlock studies him contemplatively.

“Come back to my place,” he says. “Let me tell a bit about what it is that I do for a living. I assure you that it’s often even more exciting than this little adventure has been, and I could use an assistant.”

“Yeah?” says John, his expression brightening considerably.

“And a flatmate,” says Sherlock.

“Then lead on, MacDuff,” John grins.

End.


End file.
